by Brett P. S.
Chapter 4
Facing the Wilds
Frantically, she ducked down as soon as her feet hit the floor and dove through the crawlspace, formerly doorway if it were upright. Amala took care not to cut herself any deeper as she slid through the debris she created from her kick, but she did pluck out a piece of board from the old oak. It would do nice as an off-hand shiv in case she lost her knife. The latter she clenched tightly in her right hand.
She found a spot inside the second room where the wildlings couldn’t spot her from the outside. They’d investigate for certain, their hands crawling over the structure, though the threat of unknown would hold them back only so long.
“Winston,” Amala whispered softly. “Can you hear me?”
She fell back as the light from a nearby projector flickered on, and the mustached gentleman materialized inches before her.
“Back so soon?” he asked. “I’m afraid Mr. Adamson isn’t present as of this hour. Might I take a message?”
Amala ducked beside a hard wood cabinet and gestured a hushing motion with a single finger across her lips. Winston issued a perplexed expression, but after a moment of analyzing her gesture, he appeared to have caught on.
Winston knelt down to her level and spoke softly. “Why are we keeping our voices so low, Madame?”
Amala crept her eyes over the edge of the cabinet and peered out through a cracked glass window. Two wildlings had crawled out from the thickets, their gnarled orange skin reminiscent of their former human selves. Wildlings didn’t bear children. They reigned in fresh meat from abduction and in typical fashion, she spotted freshly made marks across the wrists and neck of the left-most young man.
She surmised the boy had wandered off and the tribe’s scouts had captured him no more than a week prior. The transformation took place quickly, starting with blood poisoning. Slice deep cuts across the body and give birth to a fresh wildling in days. Accompanying him was a taller and much more muscular brute who wore loose skins over his shoulders in addition to the typical loincloth around his waist. This wasn’t an ordinary hunting expedition. This was a proving ground.
“Winston, those creatures out there want to kill me. Please tell me there’s something you can do to fend them off.”
“I’m sorry, Madame,” Winston said. “Mr. Adamson installed no sort of weaponry. If there is a threat to this homestead or its occupants, I am authorized to contact regional security.”
“Can you keep them out at least?” Amala asked.
“I apologize,” Winston whispered. “Only Mr. Adamson or a noble within his circle can issue a lock down.”
Amala grimaced and peered outside. The figures had vanished, but she knew better. She paused in deep thought at what she could say to make the puppet listen, but it was like speaking to a blade of grass, technically alive but by no means present. Her thoughts abruptly ended, however, at the resounding thud of a several feet slamming against the outer wall above her. Her heartbeat drove skyward and sent chills through her nerves at the coarse sound of labored breathing from gross nostrils above her.
“Winston,” Amala whispered. “What about Mr. Adamson’s daughter?”
Winston stroked his mustache. “Yes, I do believe an immediate family member would qualify for access to my basic commands.”
“Then I’m her.”
Winston drew back. “I don’t recall Mr. Adamson ever having a daughter.”
“You said yourself some of your knowledge is missing,” Amala stammered. “How would you know the difference?”
“I …” Winston said with a pause. “I wouldn’t, but I lack the necessary faculties to extrapolate.”
The footsteps thumped overhead as the creatures lurched over the entrance she’d used earlier. Amala hurriedly scanned her surroundings. If this Adamson fellow were a man, he’d have a family. She drummed up imagery from the few preserved picture books as she searched for the artifact that could aid her case.
Amala’s eyes opened wide, and she snatched up a mold-covered picture frame from the floor and carefully wiped off a section of the glass. The imagery had faded, but well enough remained to case a silhouette on a family portrait, a surprisingly well-preserved relic from the days before the miasma fell upon her ancestors.
“You see her, don’t you?” Amala said, holding up the image. “I’m here, in this picture.”
Winston peered cautiously into the image held within the glass. He focused his pupils or whatever mechanic allowed him to see. He drew back, an unsatisfied, albeit perplexed look on his face. Amala read his expression and pressed the point.
“Let me ask you this,” Amala said. “You accept the possibility that I could be Mr. Adamson’s daughter, correct?”
“Yes,” Winston replied. “The possibility does exist.”
“Then would you risk the life of your master’s daughter because you couldn’t come to a clear decision in regards to her identity?”
Winston glared at her in a fit of frustration but calmly rose to his feet. “Please clear your hands and feet from open windows and doors. Lock down will commence in ten seconds and counting.”
Amala huddled into the corner of the room as a loud buzzing sound emitted from throughout the dwelling. The two wildlings landed on the floor in the room behind her, the second larger one hitting the bits of glass and shrieking in gritty angst. She gripped her knife and crouched, watching for one of them to reach through. The young one would come through first. Wildlings were predictable if nothing else.
Amala focused on the scratching noises of calloused footsteps drudging through glass shards and moldy residue until she stared into the creature’s eyes. The young man cocked his head and met her gaze for a moment. He still had some hair. Despite the orange, gnarled skin and bloodshot eyes, he seemed almost human.
However, that thought purged itself from her mind as the wildling lunged for her throat with grasping hands. Amala thrust her knife into the creature’s belly as it cried out. Tainted blood trickled down her hands and black steel barriers slid across the doorway and the windows, sealing the bigger one in the other room. She stuck her knife deeper into its belly and pushed it back as the other pounded and screamed curses in a tongue devoid of sophisticated expression, more grunts than words.
Amala ripped out her knife and as the poor boy lurched back, she pushed forward and sliced it open across the neck. Sprays of blood dripped out and ran their course across the floor until it bled out. She huffed and heaved, falling back to rest her shoulders against the cabinet while Winston observed her with her arms crossed. It was as if he’d never seen death before or at least couldn’t process the idea. For her, it hadn’t gotten any easier, so she shouldn’t be one to judge.
“I need to return to my settlement by sundown,” Amala spoke through labored breaths. She rested her knife beside her. “Is there any chance you can let me out … just me?”
Winston smiled and tipped his bowler hat, gesturing to a hatch across the room she hadn’t noticed before. Then again, the letters hanging beside it hadn’t been glowing bright red prior to the lock down. She’d glossed over the details previously as broken debris, but they spelled two words. Escape Hatch.